Sunshine
by columbine-and-asphodel
Summary: A reversal from my other one chap. Sherlock lives without his heart, surviving on the memory of a promise. Major character death.


_A/N: This was influenced by the song _Postcards _by The Blizzards. It's one of my favorites, and I suggest giving it a listen before/while reading this._

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><p>Sherlock Holmes was an old man, but even in old age there was a fervor about him. His voice would soar and his hands would move as he spoke, pulling in audiences of other aged people, telling stories from his youth. He would astound them with clever deductions and thrill them with descriptions of late-night chases, running after criminals in the dead of night, dodging cars and other people, dashing ahead of the police. When he was done everyone would clap and cheer, and he would bow before exiting and making his way to his room.<p>

He was not one much given to sentiment, but the idea of sharing John Watson was one which made his heart ache and his stomach knot. Even in old age his memory far surpassed that of everyone else, so the sight of his John letting go and leaving him was forever branded behind his eyelids.

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><p>John had always been strong for Sherlock, and he had fought time just as he had fought hunger and sleep. He had forgone wheelchairs and walkers for the thin arms he had come to love. They would walk everywhere together, Sherlock trying not to move too quickly as his short companion gripped his arm. Sometimes he would glance down, noting whether he was moving too quickly or if John was stiff. Somehow John would always know, and Sherlock's gaze would be met by a dazzling smile as one of John's hands left his arm in favor of giving his hand a gentle squeeze.<p>

He had known his doctor was struggling, but it had still sent frigid daggers through his gut the day he had gone to John's room and him lying unnaturally still, his oxygen coming from a tube. It had been enough to bring tears to eyes, the sight of his heart too weak to breathe on his own, but he had to go to him, to tell John that he was there. As always, John was the one to comfort Sherlock.

A small hand reached out the moment he was within reach, and Sherlock threaded his long fingers around John's. The chair was too far away so he sat on the ground, tenderly tracing veins and placing soft kisses to the scars that decorated John's hand; Sherlock could name the exact time and way he had gotten each and every scar.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock," came a voice. It must have been John's, but surely his voice was soft and sweet, not gravelly and cracked? "Consider it a temporary vacation. You get to show off for a while, and I get some time to recover from you. Sound good?"

"Not at all. Don't go, John. What will I do without you? How will I-"

"You will go around and show off that massive brain you love so much."

"But, John, I don't- I don't care about it unless you're the one to praise me! I love you much more than a mass of tissue. I love you, John, and nothing matters if you aren't here!" Sherlock heldJohn's hand to his lips, not kissing, just feeling the warmth and life that was in the only person he had ever loved.

"Sherlock, I-" That voice could not belong to John. It was so weak it broke over his name, but the tone was John's, as were the pitch and timbre and the way it made his head swim with warmth.

"No, John, you know better than to talk. You are, after all, a doctor, even if you struggle to identify whether a body is dead or not." A chuckle, definitely John's. "You may say only one more thing. Promise me... promise me you'll meet me again when- when I'm done here."

Another chuckle. John _would_ be laughing at a time like this.

"Do you know, when I woke up after collapsing, they said my heart had given out?"

"John," Sherlock warned.

"Oh, shut up and listen, for once. They said my heart had given out, and the first thing that came to mind was you. How could my heart have given out if it had been strutting about, smiling beautifully just an our or so before?"

It was a long time before either spoke, Sherlock taking in what John had said and John studying Sherlock's face as he dissected and pulled apart what he had just heard.

"I love you, you know, you great git. Go on, then; I promise I will meet you again. In fact, I'll even go a step further. When our little vacation is over, I'll meet you with the biggest, warmest kiss you've ever felt. Now let me have some peace."

Peace did find John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes was there to be sure it knew the importance of its newest acquaintance.

There was a memorial, but Sherlock refused to go. He knew how well-like John was, how there would be people from all over who wanted to share stories about him, but he had no interest in them. John was his. Why did it matter what other people thought? He knew John would scold him, but Sherlock Holmes was a possessive man. John loved _him_, had chosen _him_; _he_, Sherlock Holmes, had won the heart of the world's greatest man. Everything and everyone else was insignificant.

After the memorial there would be a public funeral, and yet again, for the same reasons, Sherlock refused to go. He knew Mycroft disapproved, that his brother would go to both, and that he would not go alone. Lestrade would want to give his last respects, and that meant Mycroft would be hovering about- no doubt he was still afraid to speak to the former policeman. Sherlock was proved wrong, though, when he received a card from "_Anonymous_ (and Lestrade!)" Lestrade made known his thoughts on Mycroft's refusal to write his own name on a card to his brother by drawing a tiny umbrella next to_ Anonymous_.

Instead, he spent both afternoons in the courtyard behind the cottage they had shared before John had needed to go to a place with medical staff and fewer stairs. He had argued, of course, but common sense and a very persistent Sherlock had convinced him to leave their cottage. Waking up and finding Sherlock wrapped around him (_"Bloody hell, you octopus!"_ had been echoed by everyone who saw them since) had warmed him to the idea; it was just like home, only much cleaner. Much, much cleaner, John had teased him.

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><p>Sherlock was tired again, his age finally deciding to make its presence known. After a moment, he decided a walk to the old cottage would not be too far.<p>

As he walked, the summer sun beat down on him, and if he let himself be distracted it began to feel like hands were lying softly against his face. It was a ridiculous idea, but he liked to think it was John telling him he was still there, that he wanted Sherlock to know he still loved him. The voice he had always tried to quiet piped up, telling him it was John, that it was difficult to breathe because John's arms were holding him. This time, Sherlock Holmes let the voice continue, basking in the idea that if he were to reach out, he would feel John's soft hair, would be able to run his fingers over his face. He refused to try, of course; he was still sane, for all the sun was just a bit too hot.

When he reached the edge of the yard he sat down on the grass before deciding he might as well just lie in it.

As he lay there, the sun kept getting hotter, pressing all over him. Sherlock waited patiently for it to become too hot, but it never did. He only felt warm hands on his face and the warmest feeling on his lips.


End file.
